The Woman
by fuckyoursolarsystem
Summary: Sherlock and John run into a young woman in a cafe, and end up inviting her to stay with them for a few days at 221B while she recuperates from an injury. How did she get hurt, and why is Mycroft suddenly interested? Who is she, or better yet, what is she? How will she change things at 221B? Rating may go up, possible John Watson/OC in later chapters, will let you know!
1. The Start of Something

Sherlock and John walked into Speedy's, Sherlock pouting slightly. He followed slightly behind John as John went up to the counter to order. Sherlock looked over the menu, and grimaced. John looked up at him, and said, "You shoot the walls, you buy me dinner. Deal with it." He turned back to the counter and gave his order to the attendant. Sherlock said, "If you didn't want me to shoot the walls, you shouldn't have left your gun. And you shouldn't have let me be bored," as he slipped the attendant his card. John turned to him indignantly, "I was at work! And it is not my job to entertain you, you are a grown man." He moved out of the line, muttering under his breath, "In theory." Sherlock scowled petulantly, unwittingly confirming John's snide comment. John picked up his order and walked into the seating area, only to find all of the tables occupied. He turned, meaning to go back to Baker Street to eat, when he heard, "You can sit here if you like. I won't bite." He turned, and saw a young woman sitting by herself in a booth.

She was beautiful, her pale skin marred by a long white scar reaching from her right temple all the way down to her jawline, just barely missing her eye. She had short dark blonde hair, wavy, almost reaching her shoulders. There were subtle hints of dye left behind, red or pink, John couldn't tell. She had high, prominent cheekbones and dark blue-grey eyes. Ordinarily John would have guessed her to be in her early twenties, but the scar, the lines of her face, and the look in her eyes aged her. She wore a loose but fitted blouse, and a black leather jacket. A large, bulky guitar case leaned against the wall next to her. Sherlock stirred with excitement. As John was about to say, "No, thanks," Sherlock said animatedly, "Yes, thank you." He slid into the booth opposite her, and John, after recovering from the shock of both Sherlock accepting her offer and his polite behaviour, followed after. Sherlock sat, positively bouncing up and down with energy. The woman looked at him, bemused, before extending her hand and saying, "Jordan, Jordan Hartman." Her accent had distinct British overtones, but there were hints of other accents as well, given by the way she pronounced her 'r's and vowels, something that he couldn't name or place. Sherlock took her hand and shook it firmly, saying, "Sherlock Holmes." Something flashed in her eyes before nearly instantaneously disappearing, and she turned to John, who introduced himself before beginning to eat. She settled back with her food and looked at Sherlock with one eyebrow slightly raised, as he was still clearly bursting with energy, excited about…. Something. John had no idea. Frankly, he found the entire situation rather baffling. Sherlock saw that as permission to begin. "Early to mid-twenties, unmarried, single, no pets, unemployed."

She merely looked at him, her facial expression not changing, yet somehow inviting him to continue. She looked straight at him, tilting her head slightly, one eyebrow raising slightly further. Sherlock continued, growing more animated as he went. "You're American, or you were, you no longer hold citizenship." Now her face changed, but instead of the anger that John had come to expect from those whose histories and secrets Sherlock so callously revealed, curiosity was predominant, both eyebrows raised now. She leaned forward, tilting her head slightly, the one eyebrow raised higher.

Sherlock continued animatedly, "However, you have continued to travel in and out of America since, despite holding no citizenship whatsoever. You have completed military service, though not with the Americans. You have recently stayed in Russia, Morocco, and Abu Dhabi, none for longer than a week or two -given by your tan and your accent, which is quite interesting, I must say- until arriving in London, where you have been for two, no, three weeks. You were laid up, due to injury, yes, due to injury! –given by your posture, which is favouring the right side, and you wince very slightly if you move too much." John started, looking at him in shock and giving him his best bit-not-good face. He ignored John and continued, "You have no permanent address and have been sleeping in the park, Hyde Park, in trees, indicated by the bark rubbings on your jacket, they're deep, which shows a pattern. That particular species of tree is not prevalent in London, but is most commonly found in Hyde Park-" John cut him off, turning to Jordan. "Wait, you are injured and have been sleeping in trees?! Don't you have a place to stay?" She looked at him, bemused. "If I had a place to stay, why would I be sleeping in trees?" John exclaimed, "Why not go to a hospital?" She looked at him with a mixture of condescension and pity. John understood immediately. She clearly either didn't feel comfortable with or couldn't go to hospital. There was an awkward silence, before Sherlock burst out, "You could stay with us!"


	2. Waking Up

Both John and Jordan turned to look at him in shock. Sherlock continued, "We have room, and John's a doctor! He could help you with your injuries!"

She tilted her head, looking at him with suspicion, her eyes narrowed and cold, her lips pursed. The temperature of the room seemed to have plunged ten degrees from the iciness in her eyes alone. Her attention was solely focused on Sherlock, and the effect was rather disconcerting. She looked at him, John noticed, like how Sherlock looked at people when he was deducing them. She said cuttingly, "Why?"

John looked to Sherlock. He was curious to hear the answer, as he was wondering this himself. She looked distant and cold, and had tensed. Sherlock leaned forward, his head over this hands, the fingertips meeting just below his chin, in his contemplative pose, deliberately relaxed. His eyes were locked on hers, each meeting the others' gaze boldly and unflinchingly. He seemed to be searching for words before saying slowly, "You are… not boring. Not dull."

Her brow relaxed slightly. She still looked suspicious, though also pensively, with understanding. She leaned forward, her hands templed under her chin, eyes bright. "What do you do for a living, Mr Holmes?" She tilted her head slightly to the side, eyes calculating, though no longer harsh and suspecting. The sharp iciness faded, as did the tension. However, her focus did not waver. John was surprised at the question. Of all of the questions he would have asked, had he been in her place, that was not one of them.

Sherlock looked confused, almost suspicious for a moment before clearing his expression and speaking. "I'm a consulting detective. I help the police when they are out of their depth." Jordan smirked and chuckled, "Which is always." Sherlock looked at her and smirked in return. "Exactly." Jordan leaned back, relaxing her expression. "Alright, I'll stay with you. Thank you for offering, that would be… lovely."

It was clear that "lovely" was not her normal vernacular, but she was endeavouring to be polite. Both Sherlock and I smirked a little. She saw our understanding and relaxed a bit more, the smirk almost growing into a smile, the eyebrow once again raising slightly, as though daring us to comment. Sherlock chuckled quietly, and she smiled fully and looked away. It made her look young. They sat quietly for a minute, finishing their respective meals, and John thought about what the hell had just happened.

Sherlock had just invited a complete stranger to stay with them. She had an injury that had kept her from travelling. Sherlock was polite to her, a shock in and of itself, and said that she was 'not boring, not dull'. For Sherlock, that was the highest compliment he was capable of. Previously the only person that Sherlock had found interesting like that was John. At least, until Moriarty and Irene Adler threw themselves into the mix, but they were different, interesting in a very different way. She was interesting to John, too. Here sat a beautiful woman, young, and scarred, clearly intelligent, while also suspicious, wary, and calculating of those around her.

Sherlock's deductions sunk in, and he found himself fascinated. An American, or a former American, John corrected, widely travelled, with military service. That could explain the facial scar, John thought. John was surprised that Sherlock did not comment on the scar at all. John didn't know if it was a rare display of tact, or if Sherlock was still deducing it, or something else entirely. But the fact that Sherlock invited her to stay…that was something else. John felt a momentary stab of jealousy at Sherlock's interest in the young woman, before dismissing it. She was staying for a day or two, and she was not replacing John.

John examined her, not bothering to try to disguise what he was doing. His eyes swept over her face, her shoulders, broad for a woman, and her arms, clearly defined even through the leather jacket. His eyes landed on her wrists, and he stopped. Scars were layered and wrapped around each wrist. They were the type of scars that resulted not from self-harm, but from struggling against manacles. The scars clearly went all the way to the bone, indicating long-term confinement and near-constant struggling. She wore a wide banded watch on her left wrist and a thick leather bracelet on her right, but it was not enough to hide them completely. He looked up and found himself caught in her gaze. She looked into his eyes, and he felt unable to break away. She was completely focused on him, and it felt as strange as it had looked.

It was almost too much, too intense, how rapidly she observed and catalogued information, even just on the level that he could see. He forced himself to break eye contact, looking down at his half-eaten sandwich, taking a deep breath and releasing it with relief.

After a few minutes, Jordan wrapped up her trash and moved to throw it away. John had hurriedly eaten his sandwich, and she grabbed his trash on her way. Sherlock and John stood up as well, and she picked up the guitar case and wordlessly accompanied the men to the door.

John said, "We live next door, at 221B. I can carry that, if you like. " She declined and followed, her eyes scanning the street and the people. John saw the awareness in her gaze, and her stance. He agreed wholeheartedly with Sherlock's assessment that she had served in the military. She was looking for threats, and it put him on edge. John began watching as well, absorbing everything. He saw nothing that piqued his interest, but continued to observe nonetheless. It was a very short walk, and John unlocked the door, entering the small foyer. Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister, so the air was quiet and still, without the smell of tea brewing or biscuits baking.

Jordan looked around warily, before eyeing the stairs. It was clear that she did not like the stairs. John walked behind her, both to assist her if she fell, and to admire her arse. She was walking slowly, leaning heavily against the banister, and hauling the guitar case, which was slung across her back. Sherlock had already raced into the flat. John knew that she would refuse any help, but wanted to be there in case she fell. She arrived at the top of the stairs and sighed. She walked into the flat, leaning her guitar case against Sherlock's chair as she sat down.

Sherlock was stretched out on the couch with his hands folded below his chin. He had applied three nicotine patches. He had gone into his mind palace, and was clearly going to be there for a while. Jordan seemed to be in a similar place, her eyes unfocused and distant, her posture relaxed, her fingers moving slightly. John stared for a minute, thinking about just how weird his life had gotten, and went up to his room and grabbed his laptop, ready to write up the next case.

Downstairs, Jordan's eyes refocused, and she stood up and stretched. She opened the guitar case and removed a portion of the lining. She reached into the hole and pulled out a small laptop and an earpiece before settling back into the armchair. She clipped the earpiece into place and smoothed her hair back over it. An hour came and went. John sighed and closed the laptop, looking around at the silent room.

He turned to Jordan, asking, "Do you want me to take a look at that injury?" She looked up sharply, eyes wary. He followed up, "I'm a doctor. I was a trauma surgeon in Afghanistan."

She nodded and stood, walking into the kitchen. She took off her jacket and set it on the chair. John followed after her. "What kind of wound?" "Knife," she replied. He waited for further explanation, but when none was forthcoming, went upstairs to grab his medical bag before heading over to the sink to begin washing his hands. She wordlessly pulled up her shirt, and peeled away the white bandage covering the lower right side of her back.

The wound was about four inches long, stretching from her right hip almost to her spine. Thick black thread held the skin together. John pulled up a chair and began his examination. His brow furrowed. "Who did these stitches? I've never seen someone do them like this." She turned her head back towards him. "I did. That technique works better for wounds in areas that are moved or strained frequently." He looked up at her in shock, and she turned her head to look forward once more. He continued examining the wound, checking for infection or complications. There were none. The wound had been kept relatively clean, though the bandages should have been changed more frequently.

John allowed his gaze to wander over the rest of the exposed skin on her back. He felt sick. There were scars everywhere. Many were clearly whip marks, though knife wounds and burns were prevalent as well. He even saw what was clearly a gunshot wound. He was horrified, though he forced himself to snap out of it, blinking rapidly and clearing his throat loudly. He stood up and grabbed bandages out of his bag as well as antibiotic ointment and Neosporin.

He said, "There's no infection and everything looks fine, but I'll definitely want to keep an eye on it. Infection can set in very quickly and cause a lot of damage with wounds like this. I have antibiotics and healing creams that will hurry things along and prevent infection, if you are okay with that." She said quietly, "Let me see them, please." John wordlessly hand over both tubes, and she examined the labels, and then opened them and sniffed the contents. John could see that her eyes were sharp and wary once more. She seemed content with her findings, and handed them back without a word. He applied them quickly, and then carefully smoothed a bandage over the wound.

She reminded him of a wild animal, John realised. Suspicious and wary of the unknown, quick to fight or flee. John would have said she was paranoid before he saw the scars, particularly those on her wrists. It's not paranoia if they are actually after you. After seeing just a hint of the life she had led, he knew that her paranoia was completely justified, and was most likely a reasonable precaution. It made him sad to see that someone so young had suffered so much. She pulled down her shirt and put her jacket back on. She moved towards the sitting room, but stopped and angled her head towards John. "Thank you," she said quietly, before continuing back to her chair. John smiled a little.

A cell phone began to vibrate, and John could see the lit-up screen resting on Sherlock's chair. Jordan's hand flew to her earpiece. She pressed the answer button and said brusquely, "Yes?" After a moment, her face hardened, and she stalked away from the kitchen before turning to face the windows, posture rigid and erect. "Are you sure?" She listened for a few seconds, and said, "Where?" She nodded slowly, and said, "Text me the photographs. Keep watching, I'll contact you later."

She ended the phone call and stalked back over to her phone, picking it up as it buzzed again. She looked through the photos that had been sent, her face hard and devoid of emotion, save for anger. John had remained in the kitchen, and could see that a cup of tea might to everyone a world of good. He knew that he needed something to calm his nerves. He went through the familiar motions, feeling himself begin to relax into the routine. He was worried about the call Jordan had received. He didn't know who it was, or what was said, but he didn't like it. He found himself feeling very protective of the young woman. He brought out the tea and offered her a cup.

She examined it for a moment before adding milk and a dash of sugar and taking a sip. John was almost flattered that she drank it so readily. Sherlock dragged himself out of his mind palace and took a cup for himself. Moments later, loud footsteps were heard on the steps. Jordan tensed and stepped back, her posture aggressive and combative. Lestrade appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath. He said hello and snagged a cup of tea before spotting Jordan, still looking wary and defensive.

He looked slightly taken aback, and John's eyes flicked between the two of them before saying quickly, "Jordan, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. He works with Sherlock and I on cases for Scotland Yard. Lestrade, this is Jordan, she'll be staying with us for a few days." Lestrade looked mollified, and Jordan relaxed slightly, though remained at the ready. Lestrade looked away and turned to Sherlock, gulping down his tea. "Sherlock, we've got a crime scene we want you to look at. Will you come?" Sherlock didn't even look at him, focused on his phone. "I'll be just behind." Lestrade nodded and left. As soon as the door closed behind him, Sherlock bounded up, once again full of manic energy. "John, let's go!" Jordan turned to them and asked animatedly, "Can I come?" John looked slightly worried. Sherlock appraised her slowly and thoughtfully, though he kept all deductions to himself. He nodded, and Jordan and John followed him as he swept dramatically down the stairs and out the front door.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock raises his hand to hail a cab and all three pile in, with John squeezed in the middle between Sherlock and Jordan. Sherlock gave the address. A nice place, in Leinster Gardens. Sherlock was practically vibrating with energy, excited to have a case. He hadn't had a case all week, and boredom had set in. John was exhausted, and close to losing his mind. Keeping Sherlock entertained was a full time job, in addition to John's work at the surgery, and he left for work every day knowing that he would come home to whatever craziness Sherlock had perpetuated while he was away. He was just relieved to have some reprieve, however temporary.

The time went quickly, and Sherlock bounded out of the cab towards the yellow police tape while John and Jordan lingered to pay the driver. They proceeded towards the crime scene at a more sedate pace than Sherlock had employed. John noticed that Jordan kept her face slightly angled, the left side facing out more so than the right. The scar, John realised. She didn't want that to be people's first impression, a sentiment he understood completely. She had positioned herself so it looked natural, like she and John were talking quietly. Sergeant Donovan manned the police tape, holding back the small crowd that had formed around the crime scene. John ducked under and held the tape up for Jordan. Sally approached from the left, throwing out a hand.

"Excuse me, who is this?" She said, looking condescendingly at Jordan, who looked at her warily, keeping her face angled away. John employed Sherlock's method for dealing with Sally, and said brusquely, "She's with me." He moved forward, but stopped as Sally said, "Yeah, no, sorry, we don't allow kids. Freak may consider murders to be all fun and games, but this is a crime scene, not a playground. Sorry." Jordan had flinched slightly before turning her face sharply towards Sally. Her expression was hard and cold, and very effectively utilised the dramatic effect that her scar provided. Donovan went pale and she opened her mouth to speak. Jordan cut her off, eyes blazing. "I am not a child, and I am well aware of the situation, the protocols, and how to conduct myself. I was brought along because Sherlock thinks I have something to offer. Now, do you want me to help you solve your murder, or would you prefer to dick around out here?" Sally swallowed and stepped back, allowing her through. Jordan nodded, her face now neutral, not looking at her, and walked forward, squatting down next to the body. It was a middle-aged man, late forties or early fifties. He wore a relatively nice black suit, new, and had multiple stab wounds on his chest and abdomen.

Sherlock had taken out his pocket magnifying glass and was busy examining the corpse's face and hands. John knelt across from Jordan, next to the man's chest, and handed her pair of latex gloves. He lifted a hand and looked the corpse up and down. He said, "Time of death, two or three hours ago." Jordan and Sherlock nodded and stood, now pacing wildly around the body, examining it from all angles and gesturing violently. John saw that there were deep stab wounds, with numerous shallow cuts. Hesitation marks. Inexperienced killer. Probably knew the victim, friend, family, work colleague. Jordan bent lower for a closer look, brows furrowed. She touched each of the stab wounds in turn, gently, before realisation made her rock back on her heels. "Oh, what were you thinking, you naughty boy," she murmured under her breath. "Where did he work?" She asked, more loudly, directing her query towards Lestrade. Lestrade said, "Barclays." She nodded and continued her examination, her serious expression marred by her small smirk and bright, excited eyes. John began to ask what she thought, but before he could speak, Sherlock said, "Lestrade, I cannot believe that you called me for this. Boring!" Sherlock turned to walk away, and Lestrade yelled, "Well, at least explain!" Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled his eyes dramatically before whirling around, his coat flapping around him, and launching into his explanation of events.

"Late forties, early fifties. Banker, recently promoted. Married, but not happily, he was having an affair. See the hesitation marks, the random location of the wounds, none enough to kill on their own? Defensive wounds present but minimal, clearly knew his attacker. His wife found out about his affair and killed him. Simple. Boring."

He turned and began to walk away. Jordan looked up and said, "That's not right." Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. He was not used to being challenged in his deductions. He turned to face her, his facial expression surprising John. Normally when people said he was wrong, he was defensive, or condescending, and put them in their place quickly and cruelly. Instead of any of those, he looked curious, and almost gratified. He said, "Then what would you say happened here?" He looked interested, and far less doubtful than John would have anticipated. Her eyes brightened and she stood up.

She said, "You are right, he was a banker, recently promoted, to a position high enough to give some power, but not so far as to warrant significant oversight or supervision of any kind. Inviting. He was threatened and forced to use his position to move money for criminal organisations, given by the criminal investigation of Barclays made public today, based on an anonymous tip, from our friend here. He had to be disposed of, before he came forward and talked to investigators. The knife work is familiar, however uninspiring. The placement of these wounds is deliberate, despite their appearance. None of them are fatal on their own, but together, you would bleed out very quickly. The hesitation marks are post-mortem and not actually hesitation marks. They were put there to throw off the police. Your killer is Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the British Armed Forces, right-hand man of James Moriarty."

Sherlock and John turned to stare at her before exchanging a glance, John's eyes wide and shocked, Sherlock's narrowed, clearly thinking hard.

"I know him, he uses this knife pattern frequently. He prefers to use a long-range high-powered rifle, but occasionally likes to get in closer, more personal, drag it out. He views those as a treat," she said with a look of disgust. She reached into her boot and pulled out a wicked-looking knife, with a matte-black blade. "He never changes his technique. This is your murder weapon. Well, not this specifically, but this is the knife he favours. It's rather rare, and the shape is distinct, so you should be able to trace it back to him."

She was pacing and speaking quickly, talking with her hands and pointing, indicating the evidence to back up her theories. Sherlock was looking at her, and John stared in shock. How did she know Moriarty? Jesus… Jordan sheathed her knife and pulled out her phone, holding up one hand to show that she was not finished, and tapped at the screen for a moment before looking up.

She continued, "The evidence you need to prove that this is Moran's MO is with Interpol. Moran arrived in London earlier today, I have photographs to prove it. He is still in London, staying in a hostel on Montague Street, 27 Montague Street. Arrest him, but go in unmarked cars and without sirens or lights. He is very good, and if he sees you coming, he will escape. He has before. He will be carrying the evidence you need to get a conviction." She sighed patronisingly. "He was never good with discretion."

Shocked silence greeted her statements. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, John, and Sherlock stared at her, all of them stunned, with the exception of Sherlock. He looked at her appraisingly, with mild approval in his eyes. He drew in a breath and said, "You heard her, go get him!" Lestrade blinked rapidly and snapped out of his shock, yelling into his radio and jumping into his grey sedan, accompanied by Donovan. Anderson and the rest of the forensics team began cataloguing the evidence of the scene. Jordan pointed to one blood trail on the corpse and said, "That is the killer's blood. The type of knife he uses, if not held correctly, is prone to slipping when bloody. His hand was broken in such a manner that he cannot hold the blade at the proper angle." Anderson nodded and moved to take a sample. She turned and walked back to John and Sherlock. John's eyes were wide. "That was amazing!"

She smiled, eyes alight and full of excitement. She was relaxed and happy. "Thanks! Damn, I'm glad to get the chance to implicate him. He's a right bastard, I loathe people like him. Can we get takeaway? I'm starving!" Sherlock chuckled and moved after her towards the main road, speeding up to catch up with her. John followed, still shocked. His thoughts were buzzing around his head. She had proven Sherlock wrong. That was shocking in and of itself. The fact that she knew, or at least knew of, Moriarty, definitely so. But the fact that she was familiar with the killer's MO, affiliation, specialties, weapon of choice, and weaknesses was something else entirely. She despised him both on principle and personally. What did that mean?

Though as he watched, biting back a giggle, she was acting like Sherlock after a successful case. She was energised, lively, and happy. She was by no means carefree, John could still see the military posture and calculating eyes. She was smiling slightly, eyes warm. It minimised the scar and lines, and made her look young and beautiful. They all squeezed into another cab while John called ahead to the Chinese take-away on Baker Street near the flat.

* * *

They dashed up the stairs to the flat, giggling the whole way at some joke that none of them could remember. The delivery boy arrived moments later, and John paid, then the food on the table and turned to face the other two. Jordan leaned against the counter, arms braced against it, chuckling softly. Sherlock was in the doorframe, his casual posture belied by his intense gaze, focused on Jordan. She noticed, and raised one eyebrow as though asking a question. Sherlock smiled to himself slightly and moved towards the table. A cell phone began ringing, and Jordan's right hand moved to her earpiece. "Yes?" She looked down at the rug and smiled. "Excellent. Keep watching." She hung up and paused, her smiling widening before she looked up and sat down, her smile more subtle.

She said conversationally, "Sebastian Moran has been arrested, with enough evidence to convict him of at least this murder, if not several others. He is in NSY custody for the moment. Given his affiliation, higher powers may intervene." Sherlock and John nodded. Suddenly, John said, "How did Lestrade get your number?" Jordan looked confused for a moment before realising what he thought. "That wasn't Lestrade." She focused on serving herself from the take-out containers. She looked up, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as if asking the question on both his mind and John's. 'If not Lestrade, then who?' She looked back down at her food and said, "One of my contacts. I have them keeping an eye on Moran." Sherlock nodded in understanding and turned to his food. John was still confused. The infectiously happy atmosphere from before had faded, leaving a calmer sort of levity, more neutral, less giddy.

John felt that now was as good a time as any. He couldn't believe that Sherlock hadn't said anything yet, hadn't asked any questions. He hadn't run off to go chase Moran, he hadn't asked about her deductions, and had provided none of his own. It was disturbingly out of character. John said, "So, how do you know Moran?" She stopped mid-chew, before swallowing. She sobered, looking John directly in the eye. Her eyes were blank, shielded now, which turned out to be even more disconcerting than the open calculation and emotion. She looked wary, though resigned. She said, "We had a… run-in, five years ago." She averted her gaze. "He has not given up hunting me since. He has taken breaks, certainly, he has other assignments." She looked up again at John, and then at Sherlock, her eyes moving between the two. "But his obsession has never dwindled. He needs to prove to himself that he is better than me, in every way possible, and my death would give that to him." She cut off, closing her mouth and looking away. She was uncomfortable with how much she had said, that much was obvious. Sherlock said bluntly, "And is he?"

Her head snapped around to pin him with her gaze, now completely alive, defiant and powerful. "No. No, he is not." Sherlock looked as though he had expected this. Well, obviously, given from the fact that Moran had been hunting her for five years, yet here she sat, alive and whole (mostly). She muttered quietly, under her breath, "He's an idiot." Sherlock smirked. This revelation brought forward a question that had been lingering in the back of his mind all night. How old was she? The scars he had seen were clearly received as an adult, or during late adolescence. They were as healed as they were ever going to get, and old. As in, more than five years old, possibly more than ten.

She looked like she was in her early to mid-twenties, but that clearly couldn't be the case. That would make her a child, maybe a teenager, when Moran began hunting her to prove himself. John shook his head. That couldn't possibly be right. He was hesitant to ask. First of all, it was impolite. Second, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. The more questions that he and Sherlock asked, the more confused he became. He didn't know how willing she would be to answer that question. She had answered their questions, but usually revealed little to no personal information. She was obviously a very private individual, most likely with trust issues. John related to that. He didn't want to risk driving her away by being too presumptuous or demanding, or by triggering her paranoia. She stood up and began clearing away the dishes. Sherlock, to John's shock, began putting the food away in the fridge. She said, "I'm going to go to bed. Where should I…?" She trailed off, looking between Sherlock and John.

John hadn't considered where she would actually stay. He had been so busy with all of his other questions that that one hadn't even crossed his mind. Sherlock said, "You can take my room, I don't usually sleep." She nodded and followed as he led her towards his bedroom, picking up her guitar case along the way. Sherlock returned moments later. They sat in silence for a few moments, before John couldn't take it anymore. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell is going on?" Sherlock looked at him condescendingly and open his mouth to speak. His phone began ringing, and he closed his mouth and pulled out his phone. He glanced at the caller ID and his mouth narrowed, one eyebrow raised imperiously. He answered it smoothly. "Mycroft, what a surprise." He listened for a moment. "Yes, I was considering saying so myself. So you do have something." He paused, listening to whatever Mycroft was saying. "Fine." He hung up and tucked his phone back into his jacket.

"What did Mycroft want?" John asked, though he had a feeling that he might know. Sherlock walked over to the coat rack and put on his coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck and pulling on his gloves. "He has information for me regarding our guest," he said, lowering his voice so as not to risk being overheard. This worried John. Sherlock had not called Mycroft for information, Mycroft had felt justified in contacting his brother about her. Frankly, the fact that Mycroft had information on her, though not surprising, was worrying. He reached for his jacket, only to have Sherlock step in his way. "No. Mycroft said for just me to come, and while normally, I would bring you, I feel that there may be reason for the request. Stay here, and make sure she doesn't leave." John felt disappointed and mildly irritated, but nodded, stepping back. Sherlock swept out the door, his coat swirling dramatically after him. John sat in his chair and opened his laptop.

Meanwhile, Jordan was perched on the fire escape outside Sherlock's window, shrewdly watching as he got into the sleek black sedan. It pulled away, and she melted into the shadows, following close behind.


	4. An Explanation Of Sorts

AN: Reviews are wonderful! Love, hate, constructive criticism, tell me what you think! If you have any ideas, I would love to hear them. If you leave me a review, I will bake you cookies. Or send you the recipe. I make awesome cookies. Enjoy!

* * *

Sherlock sat back in his seat, looking out the window, watching London go by as a blur. He assumed he was meeting Mycroft at one of his abandoned warehouses. He snorted. Bloody power complex. Not just a power complex, but he was a drama queen about it. He put even Sherlock to shame in that regard. Anthea sat next to him, silently tapping away on her phone. They pulled up to a darkened building, which turned out to be, shock of all shocks, an abandoned warehouse. The only light came from a portable lamp, which stood next to a table where Mycroft sat, looking as posh and pompous as ever. He had a number of files stacked in front of him. His expression was serious. "Sherlock," he said solemnly. "Mycroft," Sherlock responded mockingly. "How's the diet?" Mycroft smiled slightly, but did not deign to respond, only bowing his head slightly to indicate the chair across from him.

Sherlock flopped down into it with a huff, folding his arms and saying, "What did you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock couldn't help but behave childishly around his big brother. Mycroft said, looking down at his files before glancing back up at Sherlock. "Jordan Hartman, dear brother. You may have bitten off more than you can chew with her, and I am… concerned." Sherlock leaned forward, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean, 'bitten off more than I can chew'?" Mycroft sighed. "What do you know about her?" Sherlock frowned, thinking about how to best respond. Rather little, when he thought about it. He trusted her, he realised, implicitly, had from the beginning. He had no idea why. Meeting her was almost like meeting John, with elements of his encounter with Irene. A puzzle. He could deduce her, but there was still so much he didn't know. He trusted her, wanted to be around her, wanted to know everything he could. Wanted to please her, see that smirk, to be tactful so as not to drive her away. She fascinated him, and had from the moment he laid eyes on her. He looked up at Mycroft, matching his seriousness. "What should I know?" Mycroft smirked before leaning back, folding his hands in front of him and meeting his gaze.

"She is dangerous, Sherlock. Very dangerous. I do not know why she has taken an interest in you, but I find the fact that she has done so to be highly alarming. This is not one of your usual puzzles, she is not one to be trifled with. She has the potential to be even more dangerous to you than your old nemesis, James Moriarty, someone to whom she has been linked in the past. I have been aware of her for some time. My American counterpart informed me of her existence, and has kept me updated, since."

He opened one of the files in front of him and glanced down at it. "She is extraordinarily intelligent, even by our standards, brother mine. As a hyperactive nine-year old, her IQ placed her in the top one percent of the population, which, obviously, drew attention. We hear little else of serious note about her until she is seventeen. Her health had been deteriorating for some time, without explanation. She contacted a friend who worked in the Johns Hopkins Genetics Lab about getting a DNA sample tested. She wanted to know the species. The test showed the sample to be of unknown origins, certainly not human, or anything else that we know about. When pressed, she admitted that it was a sample of her own DNA. This was reported to the appropriate people. She was approached by government officials who asked for information, with offers of compensation and protection. Access to medical records, information about what differentiates her, others of her kind, and her intentions. She rebuffed all advances, and when confronted again, she killed an agent and fled. She was injured in the struggle and was later forcibly taken into custody, where medical tests were conducted and interviews held.

Unfortunately, due to her physical strength and clear willingness to kill, she had to be kept drugged at all times. This rendered her rather unable to answer questions the majority of the time. It is unclear how much time she spent there. It is also unclear as to the extent of her abilities, and what differentiates her from the human race. She escaped and took the records of her time there, destroying both digital and paper copies. It is possible and probable that she retains copies of these records. She travelled all over the world, never remaining in one area for long. She has killed people, both agents sent to take her into custody, and those with seemingly no connection.

She had served with Israeli Special Forces, the Free Syrian Army, and the Tibetan Liberation Front. Her movements are unpredictable and erratic, and she has several lengthy periods that cannot be accounted for. I have been keeping track of her personally for some time. I met her seven years ago, quite by accident. We were both at a diplomatic event, and I happened to recognise her from surveillance photographs. I informed my people of her presence, and went about my business. Later that night, both of my men who had been sent after her were seriously injured, and the host of the event was killed. Since that particular incident, I have had my own people keeping tabs and attempting to neutralise the threat she poses. Every agent I have sent has turned up injured or killed. I fear that she is moving after you in an effort to force me to back down, or to punish me for my pursuit."

Sherlock sat back, brow furrowed, thinking furiously. He had seen the evidence of military service, the wariness, the paranoia. He had seen injuries and scars, sure indicators of a violent past. But the sheer volume of what he hadn't seen was staggering, if what Mycroft was saying was true. He almost wasn't sure whether to believe it. One look at Mycroft's face told him that he was deadly serious, that he at least believed what he was saying. Mycroft handed him one of the files. He opened it and began reading, seeing a map of her movements, and photographs of her over the years. She never changed, or at least, she hadn't aged noticeably. The only changes were additional scars. He looked up at Mycroft's sharp intake of breath, and saw his face turn white. He turned and looked up, seeing Jordan approach from the shadows, looking solemn and deadly, her tread smooth and near-silent.

Mycroft stood and swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. She approached and stopped, standing to the right, behind Sherlock. Sherlock remained seated, but turned to look up at her. His current assessment matched his previous ones; she was not a threat to him or to Mycroft. At least, she had no desire to do physical harm at this point. Sherlock was not naïve enough to believe that she wouldn't act if she deemed it necessary. She looked forward. "Mr Holmes," she said evenly. Mycroft swallowed again. "Miss Hartman." Sherlock stood and offered her the chair. She moved to decline, looking up into Sherlock's eyes. She realised that he was trying to put everyone at ease, abate the tension at least a little, lend some civility to an otherwise hostile situation. He was on her side. Or, at least, wasn't against her. Yet. Sherlock noticed with a start that her eyes were different. Her pupils were now elliptical. In the low light most would not have noticed, but the change caught his attention. She nodded and sat. Sherlock stood just behind her left shoulder, staring at her. She held her head angled towards him, aware of his presence and keeping him in her sights, but with her main focus on Mycroft. Mycroft sat as well, looking worried but calm.

There were several seconds of silence. She seemed content to let it play out, her demeanour almost… uncertain. She didn't seem to know how to begin. Mycroft, normally the patient, ever-calm presence, was not. "To what can I attribute the… honour of you presence?" He said, slightly uncertainly. He clearly didn't know how to react, or what she wanted. He didn't know how to treat her, given the circumstances. She looked thoughtful for a moment. She nodded towards the files on the table. "A very interesting story you presented." She said. "An utter fabrication, but interesting none the less." Mycroft looked slightly surprised, though no one other than Sherlock would have caught it.

He wasn't expecting this. He expected blackmail, or threats, or bribery to cease his pursuit of her, if not outright violence. He did not expect denial, or explanation. He had only seen violence from her, and diplomacy did not fit with the pattern as he knew it. Sherlock was less surprised, which may have resulted from his disbelief of the entire situation. It just didn't compute with him, something wasn't right. Her behaviour was not that of a cold-blooded killer, or of someone looking for revenge. They were missing something, some key piece of information. Mycroft raised one eyebrow and opened his mouth to retort, but Sherlock spoke before he could. "Then what would you say happened?" She smiled slightly, remembering the crime scene momentarily. She sobered and straightened, her eyes fixed on Mycroft with her head angled towards Sherlock. "Elements of what you said are true. I suppose it's not a _total_ fabrication. I did go to Johns Hopkins for testing. The Americans did approach me for information.

I did refuse and I did flee. However, there is a whole part to this that you do not understand. The basics are true. However, what you perceive me to be is not accurate. I am not a psychopath, an aberration of nature, or a natural-born killer," she winced slightly at her words, "that cannot even pretend to be like others. This goes far deeper than what those files show. I was sixteen when all of this began for me. In July, just before my sophomore year of high school, my health began to deteriorate. When it started, my heart rate was far too high, my blood pressure too low. Soon, I was in pain all the time, and no doctor was able to help. My head was fogged and cloudy, my lungs became less and less efficient, and I began to have issues with mobility, speech, and fine motor skills. I was put on various medications to try to mitigate these symptoms, with limited and varying success. It was extraordinarily painful, and continued for the better part of a year, my health deteriorating more and more. Suddenly, everything stopped, and I was back to what I thought was normal. It wasn't long before I realised that I was now smarter and stronger than ever, but that I was… different. Something had changed, and I was, honestly, scared. About a month later, I confirmed it."

She hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with how much she was saying. She looked up at Sherlock, took a deep breath, and continued, refocusing on Mycroft. "I realised that what I had become was not human, or at least not normal. I'm a shape-shifter, though not in the classic sense of the word. This is me, naturally. I can change what I appear as, but it takes quite a bit of energy, effort, and focus, and can be very painful, depending on the degree of change and how different I am trying to become. Changing is not meant to be an easy thing to do, and it isn't. My guess is that it evolved as a sort of last-ditch defence, for when all else fails. I can't turn into other people, or drastically change my appearance. I can do things like change the colour of my eyes, slightly darken my hair, et cetera, but nothing dramatically different.

I have to resort to normal methods of disguise for that. There are anatomical differences, but they do not affect daily life, for the most part. For the most part, my life is no different than it was before. I am, essentially, no different. I have continued to live my life as I had before the transformation, as others do. As a human. A highly intelligent human, but human none the less. My bones are both more resilient and more forgiving, and my musculature is more efficient, more flexible, and far stronger. I became smarter after the transformation. I was already highly intelligent, as you have said," she said, nodding towards Mycroft. Her eyes were slightly unfocused, her thoughts clearly internally occupied.

"But I had become far more so. My memory improved, and I eventually realised that I had developed hyperthymesia. Once I realised just how much I had changed, I contacted a friend at Hopkins to run samples. I was scared. He did, no questions asked. He knew that I had my reasons. The results showed that I wasn't human. I had hoped that there was a legitimate medical disorder responsible for the changes, or, in my more fantastical phases, that I had become superhuman. This was far more scarring for me mentally and emotionally, and it garnered attention. My friend asked about the origin of the sample, as it hadn't matched DNA from any known species. I admitted that it was my own, foolishly believing that he would keep it in confidence. I was still in shock from the results and not thinking clearly.

He, obviously, reported it to his superiors, an action that I was unaware of until people came asking questions. Men from the government, military-affiliated, came to my school, during class. They pulled me away from my peers and teachers and threw their badges around, making no secret of who they were, until we were alone. I was not allowed to bring in teachers or friends as witnesses, or to call legal counsel or my parents. There were four of them. Two were obviously bodyguards, something that I was confused by at the time. I didn't understand why they thought it necessary. They sat me down, and told me that they knew what I was, and that there were things that needed to happen, that I would need to cooperate with them."

Her eyes were unfocused, reliving the memories. She looked ancient and sad, slightly fearful. "I was terrified. My parents didn't know, I had told no one. They gave me something to sign, a contract. They said it would entitle them to my medical records and a full non-invasive medical exam by a doctor of my choosing, as well as a guarantee of my cooperation and continued communication. They wanted to make sure I didn't disappear on them. For me, they said it guaranteed that no one could use my… status… as justification to deprive me of my rights, imprison, attack, or kill me. That's what they told me. It was written entirely in legalese, in overly complex terms or in the base Latin. I couldn't understand any of it. They wouldn't let me take it with me, but I managed to photograph one of the pages. I remembered the rest. When I asked about the fact that I was seventeen, that I was underage, they told me that under the law, I had no rights and no protection, and that I should take what I could get. I insisted on taking time to think, and they gave me a week. I wrote out everything that I remembered and contacted a lawyer I know to get a read on what was happening."

She paused then, and took a deep breath, clearly steeling herself, her eyes sombre and weary. "He read what I had, and afterwards, his face was white. It stated that it gave the holder full custody of the signee, with the right to restrict movements or imprison if they so desired and as they saw fit. It gave them license to carry out any and all medical tests or experiments, regardless of consent. It stripped me of any rights and protections and made my involuntary, indefinite incarceration entirely legal. It established me as an entity entirely outside the law. Well, outside of the protections provided. I could still be prosecuted for my actions, but basically they could do whatever the fuck they wanted to me without fear of any legal ramifications or police action. It was essentially a deed of ownership. At least, that was the language that was used, the terms dated back to deeds for slaves. A week later, I met with the agents again. I told them to shove it where the sun don't shine, that I was willing to work with them and cooperate, but not if they kept trying to trick me, intimidate me, or threaten me. That, I was not willing to tolerate." Sherlock supressed a smirk. He could only imagine how that conversation had gone. He immediately sobered, however, as she continued.

"They made it very clear that they would be back, that I needed them, and that until they had a guarantee of my cooperation, they would continue to pursue me. When I disagreed with their logic, that they needed me far more than I needed them, they reminded me that I had no rights, and that I should go home to my family. They read off my address, my phone number, and the names and ages of my parents, brothers, and pets, as well as where each of them worked or went to school. I was scared out of my mind. I had wanted to push all of this under the rug, ignore it, conduct myself as I had before, and live a relatively normal life. My condition didn't change my plans, or my goals for the future. I didn't have long to wait to see what they would do. The next day they came back to campus. They attempted to forcibly take me into custody. I couldn't believe the nerve of them. They attacked me in broad daylight, in the middle of the fucking quad. I fought, and I ran. One of them shot me, but I kept going. I did hurt one of them in the struggle, I never heard what happened to him. I made it home, and I told my parents what was going on." She refocused on Mycroft, her eyes still cloudy but much more aware of her surroundings.

"I know it was stupid to go home, I knew then, and I know now, but I needed help and I needed reassurance. I was scared and in pain. They caught up to me there. In the middle of the night, armed men broke into my home." Her eyes were unfocused and full of old pain and fear. She looked so young, yet old at the same time.

"They made me watch as they killed my family, and burned my house to the ground. They had a body that was going to make it look like I had died in the fire too. They drugged me, and when I woke up, I was in what I later found out was a converted military base. I was kept drugged from there on out. The majority of the time, it was my ability to think clearly that was affected, to prevent any possibility of escape. I was still physically able and in control of myself, but did not have the strength to do much damage, or the brainpower to try to shift or to attempt to escape." She took a deep breath to steel herself, and sat up straighter, ducking her head slightly.

"Their actions started off as legitimate, at least from a medical perspective. Many procedures were painful or invasive, but, frankly, that was to be expected. I received a decent level of care. However, as time went on, my situation deteriorated. I was starved and sleep-deprived to the brink of endurance. I was regularly beaten, tortured, and raped. Fortunately, due to the drugs, there is quite a lot that I don't remember. They ended up bringing in a nurse to patch me up at the end of every…'session,'" she said, making air quotes with her hands, "to make sure that lasting damage was minimal, and that I wouldn't die of my injuries."

"One day she was late delivering my dose of whatever they were giving me. I begged her not to give it, not to send me back to them, not to let them hurt me anymore. At first she tried to ignore me as she tended to my injuries, which were far more pressing than administering the drug, but she ended up asking me to explain what was happening to me, what with the grievous nature of my condition. She believed me, as my story corresponded with my injuries and scars. The next day, she helped me escape, getting me copies of all of their records, including surveillance. On my way out, I destroyed their records. I found out that I had been held there for almost eight years. I hid in a disused ski cabin for a few days, recovering to the best of my ability before I started running. I was constantly being hunted, I couldn't stay anywhere for long. Soon the people coming for me stopped trying to take me into custody. They just tried to kill me. The people coming after me were different as well. In the beginning, they all were Americans, at least by affiliation or employment.

Later on, the killers were originating from all over the world, both under government and private employment. After a year of this, I joined the Israeli military. I needed the training and expertise. I had learned a lot during my travels and had become very good, but I needed to be better than good. I needed to be an expert. So, I learned from the best. There is also protection in numbers. After I left, I started working to better the world. I recognised that this goal was both idealistic and sentimental, but I needed a purpose. Previously, I had focused on keeping my head down and passing by unnoticed, as I had enough enemies already. Now, however, all I was doing was running. I had no direction, and no motivation, no purpose. I assisted the campaigns of both the Free Syrian Army and the Tibetan Liberation Front. I also cracked down on criminal networks, particularly those that specialised in human trafficking. I started off small, but occasionally took on bigger fish.

That diplomat that you mentioned, Mr Holmes, that I killed, was the lynchpin in a network that was a world leader in supplying drugs, running guns, and human trafficking. His death was crucial in taking them down. Police action would have at best achieved nothing, and at worst helped his group. It was extremely unlikely that his diplomatic immunity would be rescinded, and any media attention would only serve as advertisement for his associates. Unfortunately, my efforts caught the attention of Jim Moriarty. He was…recruiting, you might say, and my skill set appealed to him. I met with him several times, which only served to cement by disinterest in working with him. He pursued me relentlessly, and when I continued to rebuff him, he assigned Sebastian Moran to orchestrate my demise. He recognised how dangerous I could be to him and his network, and sought to eliminate the threat. I have kept my head down since then."

She fell silent, looking up to meet Mycroft's steady gaze. She turned her head forward, avoiding Sherlock's eye. "I am the only one of my kind. There were more, in previous generations, but they have all died of natural causes or been killed off. It's just me, now. My interest in your brother is nothing sinister. I had heard of him, and I recognised the last name as shared, and assumed the relationship. He invited me to stay with him and I did. I find him and his companion interesting, as well as their work, and a warm place to stay is very welcome. There are no ulterior motives." She looked resigned now, and sad. Mycroft looked unmoved, but Sherlock could see that her words had surprised him. Sherlock himself was shocked, feeling numb. He had absolutely no idea how to respond to this, or how to absorb these revelations. Mycroft said, "We have reports and evidence that indicate otherwise. If you want anything to change for your… situation, I will need other evidence. I am not the only one who is involved, and my word alone will not affect the situation, not with something of this magnitude."

He looked sympathetic now, and spoke softly. Sherlock knew that he was reassessing his opinions, and that his current demeanour was to put her more at ease, and show that he would look into this. He didn't fully believe her, not yet, but he was willing to investigate her claims, and –depending on what he found –work to change her situation. Her expression was guarded, face stony, as she nodded and reached into her jacket. She didn't believe that Mycroft believed her for even a moment. She pulled out a flash drive and handed it to him. He raised one eyebrow slightly and took it. She said, "There are photographs, surveillance footage, correspondence, and other documentation."

She hesitated, then continued, "I would look at that with an empty stomach if I were you." She looked slightly reviled, and almost ashamed. Mycroft nodded, and said, "Duly noted," as he slipped it into his jacket pocket. They sat in silence for several moments. Mycroft looked barely ruffled, professional and posh as ever. Sherlock was staring at the back of Jordan's head. Jordan looked resigned, almost sad. She handed Mycroft a slip of paper. "If you need to contact me." He nodded and accepted it, standing as he tucked it into his jacket alongside the flash drive, correctly interpreting the comment as a dismissal. Mycroft looked to Sherlock. "A car will take you back to Baker Street." Sherlock nodded, and swept off, Jordan following behind, head bowed.

* * *

She and Sherlock got into the car in silence. She looked out the window, watching London go by. She said quietly, "I'll just pick up my things and be out of your hair." This startled Sherlock out of his reverie. He turned to her, saying distractedly, "What?" She repeated herself, almost whispering, her voice cracking. Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Why?" She turned her head from the window, but continued to avoid his gaze. "I do not wish impose on you any longer. It would be best if I did not linger." Sherlock saw what she was thinking in her posture and her facial expression. She thought that he didn't want her at Baker Street, that she was another inconvenience, another problem. He remembered seeing her flinch at the crime scene while talking with Sally, when Sally had called Sherlock 'Freak' instead of his name. That was what she thought of herself, and was used to others feeling similarly. She was so used to staying disconnected, moving from place to place, always alone. She was used to continual rejection, and had learned to expect it. She was heading off the inevitable, attempting to spare herself the pain of him telling her to leave directly. It was clear, however, that the pain was finding her, regardless. Her expression was stony, but she could not entirely hide the sadness and resignation in her eyes, the pain from a lifetime of loneliness that was both naturally occurring and self-inflicted.

Sherlock turned, his entire body facing towards her. She kept looking forward resolutely. Sherlock could see that her tear ducts were beginning to swell slightly. She was holding back tears. She didn't want to leave. He didn't want her to leave either. He said quietly, "I invited you to stay at Baker Street and that invitation stands. Tonight doesn't change that." She glanced at him warily. Sherlock could see fragile hope warring with fear and suspicion in her eyes. He continued, "You were highly useful today at the crime scene. I enjoy your company, as does John, and I'm sure Lestrade does as well." The paranoia had not left her face, and Sherlock realised what she was worried about. He struggled to find words that appropriately conveyed his meaning. "What you are has no bearing. It is not why I am asking you to stay, nor does it change the situation." She finally looked at him full on, eyes once more calculating and cold. She studied him for several seconds, before nodding minutely and turning to face forward. She appeared aloof and unfeeling, but Sherlock knew that she was simply overwhelmed with everything that had happened tonight. They rode on in silence.


End file.
